What I should be doing today: two home visits (yes, that’s right Mail readers, visits, at home, by me, a GP), one to a man with cerebral mets from an unknown primary who has waited so long for MDT and oncologist to decide whether he’s for active treatment or not that he’s provided the answer himself by taking to his bed and requesting he hook up with his deceased wife, so I need to go co-ordinate and palliate, and another to a wonderful couple who redefine the word ‘unlucky’ on the basis that, while she’s suffering a chemo-blitz on her carcinomatous abdomen, he’s just gone and had an MI, which means my role is to pop round, join hands and agree that, yes, life really is a bummer sometimes, anything at all I can do to un-bum it?
What I will be doing today: fiddling, fannying and fretting with CQRS in the hope that, yes, it has sucked up the QOF data from our system, and yes, it has correctly crunched the numbers so that, yes, we are promised enough money to achieve some sort of dent in our tax bill, but I’m not holding my breath given that this is a system which has been consistent only in its complete uselessness, so I’m anticipating stress, frustration, frantic phone-calls to unresponsive helplines and, ultimately, much banging of heads against brick walls, or, in short, a triad of feeling confused, confounded and concussed.
How today will end up: I, like you, will get all of the above done, and much, much more, and will come home to a spouse who will say, God, you look wrung out, you’re a fool for grinding yourself into the dust and I’ll say, with a weak smile, as I reach for the Sauvignon, yes, but look at the date and she’ll say these days every day is April Fool’s day.
